


Fire Can Mean Warmth, Not Just Flames

by Thilien



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), But Then It Gets Super Soft I Promise, Drawlight's Advent Challenge, Ficlet, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: "Jolting awake, Crowley can still feel the heat of the flames upon his face.He had been, as always, in the bookshop. But not the comfortable, familiar bookshop that lay downstairs, filled to brimming with old tomes and a squashy sofa, or with a beloved angel hunched reading attentively over the worn oak desk.Instead, the bookshop Crowley had been living in his nightmare was a bookshop on fire. Flames licking at the stacks, smoke billowing through the air. And no angel. Not anywhere."In which a demon has a familiar nightmare, an angel is there to comfort him, and a vision of the future is discussed.My prompt fill for day five of Drawlight's advent challenge. Prompt: Fire. Starts out with some light angst but I promise it gets blanket-soft by the end!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559806
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	Fire Can Mean Warmth, Not Just Flames

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the wonderful Drawlight for coming up with the prompt list.
> 
> Needless to say, I don't own any of this - just borrowing and playing with it for a while. All the good stuff belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchell and to the marvellously talented people who bought the book to life so wonderfully for us all.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy x

**Fire Can Mean Warmth, Not Just Flames**

Jolting awake, Crowley can still feel the heat of the flames upon his face. 

He had been, as always, in the bookshop. But not the comfortable, familiar bookshop that lay downstairs, filled to brimming with old tomes and a squashy sofa, or with a beloved angel hunched reading attentively over the worn oak desk. 

Instead, the bookshop Crowley had been living in his nightmare was a bookshop on fire. Flames licking at the stacks, smoke billowing through the air. And no angel. Not anywhere. 

It was that last feeling that always hit him the hardest. Crowley was a demon. Fire and brimstone and billowing smoke he could cope with. But in 6,000 years, from the moment they’d stood on the wall of a garden together and an angel’s wing had sheltered him from the rain, he’d always been able to sense his angel. Even during their century-long disagreement, Crowley had always known that the angel was there. They could find each other if they needed to. _Wherever you are, I’ll come to you._

Until that one moment. When Crowley had reached out and there was nothing. For the first time in eternity, he had been utterly alone. 

Now, the cold dread that this particular nightmare always invokes sitting heavily on his heart, Crowley takes in his surroundings. The flat above the bookshop is cramped, a small bed-sitting room with a tiny kitchen and an even smaller bathroom off. Until recently, Aziraphale had mostly used it for book storage. Even now the angel rarely sleeps, although he can at least be tempted up to bed most evenings, drifting downstairs to his books once Crowley has fallen into sleep and, usually, returning upstairs to curl up beside the demon as the morning light starts to filter in through the windows. 

As it is the middle of the night however, the flat is currently angel-less. But Crowley can hear the sound of the angel pottering around downstairs. Pulling a black t-shirt over his head and running a hand through his mussed-up hair, he heads downstairs.

Aziraphale is curled up on the sofa, book perched on his lap and a mug of freshly made cocoa in hand. Hearing Crowley’s footsteps on the stairs, he looks up, taking in the demon’s dishevelled appearance; the ghosts of the nightmare that must still haunt Crowley’s face. 

“Bad dream?”

Crowley nods, wandering over to sit beside his angel. Without a word, Aziraphale puts down his book and cocoa, lying back and opening his arms so that the demon can crawl into them, enveloping himself in the angel’s warmth, taking comfort from the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

“The bookshop again?” 

Aziraphale murmurs the words into his hair, soothing away the last shades of the nightmare with a gentle touch. The fingers of one hand tangle in Crowley’s hair whilst the angel’s other hand moves round to caress the small of his back. 

Crowley nods again. He doesn’t need to explain. They’ve been here before, curled up on the sofa while Aziraphale pours out love and comfort and chases away all the scars and ghosts and nightmares that Crowley feels like he’s been carrying around with him for half his life. 

The angel’s hand, idly stroking circles on Crowley’s back, lulls him back towards sleep so he isn’t sure how much time passes before Aziraphale speaks again. 

“My dear, I’ve been thinking.”

“Always dangerous angel.” 

Crowley is feeling himself enough to attempt humour now, and is rewarded, when he raises his head, by the sight of his Aziraphale rolling his eyes, blush rising. The angel is delightful when he gets flustered, and Crowley enjoys baiting him for just this reason.

“Oh hush, you old serpent and listen.” 

Aziraphale shuffles, forcing Crowley upwards so that he can see the angel’s face properly. Aziraphale reaches out to take Crowley’s hands in his own, smooth palms enclosing skinny fingers.

“We could…well, I was thinking...the bookshop is...well, what I mean is...with your nightmares...we don’t have to...”

Crowley untangles a hand and reaches up to caress the angel’s face reassuringly.

“Words angel. Use your words. You’re getting as bad as me.”

Aziraphale smiles then takes a deep breath and looks directly at Crowley, blue eyes meeting gold. 

“Well...your nightmares. They’re always about the bookshop, right?”

Crowley nods. 

“And I know we’ve settled here now that you’ve given up your place but, well, I was thinking that we don’t _have_ to be here. If it’s difficult. We can...we can live somewhere else. Somewhere for both of us.”

Crowley feels the breath hitch in his chest. He can’t quite believe what Aziraphale is suggesting.

“But angel, you _love_ this place. It’s your home.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. 

“No, it’s not.” He looks around, at the shelves piled with books and the first of the morning light filtering onto the floorboards, dust motes drifting gently within the rays, “it’s just where I live. _You_ are my home. And wherever you are, that will be home for me too.”

And Crowley doesn’t have anything to say to that. So instead he leans forwards, pulling the angel into a kiss that, he hopes, expresses everything that words have failed to. 

Some time later, once they’ve both come up for air and Crowley’s head is rested in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel’s fingers palming through his hair whilst he reads, Crowley asks, “So...where would you want to live? Somewhere else in London?”

Aziraphale pauses, placing his book down again, thinking.

“No,” he says, “I think I’d quite like to get out of London. But not too far away. By the sea maybe.”

Crowley turns over the idea in mind. Somewhere with wide open views from every window. Where Aziraphale can curl up with his books and watch the ever-shifting sky blur into the sea. He could have a garden. He’s always quite liked the idea of a proper garden, the thought of branching out from pot plants and into menacing some vegetables. 

Aziraphale is clearly turning the idea over as well because, after a short pause, he looks down, fingers soft on the edge of Crowley’s cheekbones.

“How about a cottage, my dear?”


End file.
